[ The growth—if you can call it that—around the altar goes wild, fungus and meat piling on top of itself, blooming into pustules or sloughing away to reveal what looks almost like bone.


It is gathering itself.
It is becoming. So is its retinue, which swarms, ratlike, over the ruined terrace.

Already, some are reaching the sea, spreading over the waves like an oilslick. ]

i ̕c҉o͟n̕fes̷ş,̶ i too ͜have seen҉ t̀he ̵ja͟ẃbone ̀e̕ru͡pt i͘n̕t͠o ̀a͘mbr͜os̸i̷a͜
̷ ̷ ͡ ͠ ͘ ̡ ͘yǫu ̴h͟avę ͢s̷een͝ ͟the̛ r͞íb͠ćagé tu̶r̢ne̴d ̶v͝i͜ne̵ r̴i̸vule͜t, ͟s̵ur҉viv̨ed̵
́ d͡és͏tinieś ̧a̴r̢e ̸wr̡i͠t͠ten̨ i͠n ̴the̶ ̀ga͏rden̴
̸i̢n̡ wh҉įc҉h̀ de͠a̷th̀ s͡hąll ͢c҉o̸me ri̶pe ̛and̨ a ͞m̶e̢r̨cy.͟

[ The rot around you is still swelling—halfway up your calves; writing words on stone for only a moment before the mold is too dense to read. ]